


The Dead Walk and the Living Regret

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire are like a walking cliche.</p><p>They get drunk. They have sex. They wake up the next morning and it’s real awkward. One of them thinks that the other one regrets it. Maybe they both think that the other one regrets it. They avoid each other. They talk it out. Eventually. They live happily for the rest of their days. Everyone laughs when Courfeyrac tells the story at their wedding, years later. </p><p>No, wait. One of those details isn’t right. Rewind. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>A post-apocalypse zombie AU.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dead Walk and the Living Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious consent in an ongoing established sexual relationship due to alcohol consumption.

Enjolras and Grantaire are like a walking cliche.

They get drunk. They have sex. They wake up the next morning and it’s real awkward. One of them thinks that the other one regrets it. Maybe they both think that the other one regrets it. They avoid each other. They talk it out. Eventually. They live happily for the rest of their days. Everyone laughs when Courfeyrac tells the story at their wedding, years later.

No, wait. One of those details isn’t right. Rewind.

 

**They get drunk.**

Grantaire is drinking at the rate of hasn’t-actually-stopped-drinking-since-last-Wednesday. Enjolras is drinking like a cure can be found at the bottom of the bottle. They ran out of purification pills almost a week ago.

Enjolras just got back from a scouting trip, trying to see if any of the dilapidated buildings in the area still had purification pulls stored somewhere. The alcoholic content of the beer is what actually makes it safe to drink, diluted with as much of the contaminated water as they dare before risking infection.They take beer on those trips, a small amount, but Enjolras rations it, and doesn’t drink any himself at all. The beer makes them slow, groggy, should an attack occur. They get back after two days with a variety of things: fabrics, first aid supplies, a moderate case of dehydration on Enjolras’ part. But no purification pills.

They’ve sent out a distress call by radio but the next helicopter run from the main settlement isn’t for another two weeks. Until then – alcohol.

Enjolras gets drunk easily, partially because he hasn’t drunk anything for two days and partially because they don’t eat a lot any more, any of them. That’s not a problem for Grantaire, of course, his liver hardened by years of drinking even before the infection started.

So. Grantaire is never sober these days. He just ranges from pleasantly buzzed when he is needed to man the perimeters to black out drunk when he’s off duty. At the moment, he can feel his fingertips, but he can’t feel his feelings. That’s Grantaire’s favourite kind of drunk.

 

**They have sex.**

Enjolras always broods after the unsuccessful scouting trips. This one hadn’t even counted as one of the bad ones – they hadn’t lost any runners this time, and they had even salvaged some useful materials. But useful is not the same as necessary, and there’s only so much food they can grow on what used to be a paved street and someone’s front lawn.

Combeferre or Courfeyrac are in charge when Enjolras cannot be, and they order Enjolras off-duty for at least a day, as is standard after a scouting trip. Grantaire takes Enjolras to his bed, stripping him of his dirty clothes until he’s just in underwear as Enjolras’ limbs hang loosely from the alcohol. “I don’t want to be alone,” says Enjolras, eyes glassy and gazing off into the distance. It’s not a request; Enjolras would never ask for help, not from him at least. Grantaire isn’t even sure whether he’s talking to himself or to Grantaire.

Grantaire stays anyway. Enjolras shares his room with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, two mattresses side-by-side on the floor to afford whichever of the three of them are off duty the most space they can manage, and Grantaire slides in next to Enjolras.

The alcohol wafts off Enjolras’s breath as he watches Grantaire, making no move to either pull him in or push him away, and Grantaire gives Enjolras a good foot of space. They lie in awkward silence for a while until Enjolras rolls over onto his front, watching Grantaire watch him. “Touch me,” says Enjolras, voice quiet.

There are no outside noises, not anymore, nothing that will afford Grantaire an excuse to say that he misheard. Grantaire props himself up on one elbow and frowns. He lays a hand on Enjolras’ forearm.

“Not like that,” says Enjolras, wrapping his long fingers around Grantaire’s wrist. “ _Touch_  me.” He pulls his hand back and brings Grantaire’s wrist with it but it’s Enjolras telling him to that makes Grantaire move forward rather than any physical strength. He lays his hand on Enjolras’s bare shoulder. Even that seems more intimate than he ought.

“You’re a maudlin drunk,” says Grantaire, trying to make light of it.

“As are you,” says Enjolras, smiling with too much teeth, and rolls back onto his back, spreading his legs.

Grantaire swallows. This thing between them is a recent development, borne under the pressure of a grim survival and the compromising of a thousand morals in this new, broken world. Grantaire can feel how new and fragile it is all the time, the way it can be easily shattered by, just as an example, a drunken bout of sex that neither of them actually wants. Just an example, of course. “You’ll regret this in the morning,” he says hoarsely, but he can’t help raking his eyes down Enjolras’ body, drinking in the pale skin and the light fuzzy hairs that have risen in the cool of the evening.

Enjolras hums. “Maybe.” He takes Grantaire’s hand, and presses it onto his chest, drags it down the length of his stomach, rests it over the soft bulge in his underwear. He’s taking advantage of the fact that Grantaire can never refuse him; Grantaire shudders, and lets him. “Don’t you want me?” he asks, and it comes out a little desperate, a little hysterical, a little cruel.

A pitiful sound escapes the depths of Grantaire’s throat. Enjolras wants this, he tells himself. Enjolras needs this, needs something to comfort him. And Grantaire needs this too. It’s breaking his heart to see Enjolras like this; there’s got to be something he can do to help. It ought to hurt more, Grantaire thinks, the way Enjolras is using him but his head is too fuzzy to hurt. He presses his lips to Enjolras’ forehead. “I’ll make you feel good,” he says.

Enjolras lies back, mostly staring at a spot on the ceiling as Grantaire touches him, sweeps gentle hands across his skin. He lets Grantaire move his legs, raising them up so that they hook over Grantaire’s hips and the first sign that he feels anything at all is a hissing inhale of breath when Grantaire tentatively pulls his underwear down and takes him in his hand.

 

**They wake up the next morning and it’s real awkward.**

Grantaire wakes first. He blinks awake and stares at the ceiling, trying to determine if the grogginess is because he’s waking up, or because of the alcohol. If it’s the first one, he needs a drink, but will probably feel bad about it. If it’s the second one he doesn’t need a drink at all, but he’ll have one anyway and won’t bother feeling bad about it.

He rolls his head to the side, and looks down at the mess of blond hair cover his shoulder. Enjolras is asleep on his arm, and Grantaire can’t feel his fingers anymore. He brushes a finger over the light scruff of Enjolras’ stubble, and whispers, “Sorry.”

He stares for a bit longer, and then gives in to the grogginess, and falls back into uneasy sleep.

When he wakes up for the second time, Enjolras is gone. On the other side of the mattress is Courfeyrac instead, curled up in exhaustion, and Grantaire grimaces, thanking his foresight to have cleaned up last night. The space next to him is still warm, so Enjolras didn’t leave that long ago, and Grantaire spends far longer than he would like to admit just touching the space Enjolras used to fill.

After Grantaire’s grabbed a bite to eat, he turns up at headquarters to check on the daily rota – and also maybe to see whether Enjolras is there. The rota is exactly the same as it was yesterday, Grantaire being scheduled to watch the perimeter for five hours, and Enjolras should not be in headquarters because he is still off-duty but it’s Enjolras and he can’t stay away so actually he _should_ be in headquarters, and he’s... not.

“Morning,” Grantaire says to Combeferre instead.

“He’s not here,” says Combeferre, with a small smile.

“Who?” asks Grantaire, because he does have some dignity to preserve. “I was just checking up on the rota.”

Combeferre is not the least bit fooled, and he doesn’t even pretend for Grantaire’s sake. He just snorts. “He’s in the clinic.”

“Thanks.” Grantaire pauses. “Is he – okay?”

Combeferre drums his pen on the desk, and now Grantaire can see how tired he is, the slight unfocussed look to his eyes that tell him that he’s not drinking much either in the hopes of staying sober but the dehydration is starting to take its toll. “He’s disappointed.”

Grantaire sighs. “Yeah, I figured.”

Combeferre looks like he wants to say something else but he doesn’t, and there’s only so many times Grantaire can pretend to search for his own name on one bit of paper, so he waves and leaves.

 

**One of them thinks that the other one regrets it.**

Grantaire thinks that in hindsight, he should have asked for a bit of clarification. Like, for example, what exactly it was Enjolras was disappointed in. Hint: it wasn’t the purification pills.

“I think we can just about survive the week before the run if we’re all very careful, and make sure to eat properly,” Joly is saying, running through all the statistics and data he can remember with no internet existing anymore.

Enjolras nods and makes to leave. “That’s all I needed to know. I’ll put up notices for everyone to see.” Grantaire takes a quick step to his right and Enjolras blinks as if noticing him for the first time. “Don’t you have infected to watch out for?” Enjolras asks him when it becomes apparent that Grantaire is blocking the doorway.

“Not for another few hours,” says Grantaire. “You left early this morning, I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Enjolras lets out a sharp bark that startles Joly into a jump; Joly retreats into the clinic, muttering about something he has to do. “You made sure of that last night, didn’t you?” Enjolras asks, not meeting his eyes.

Grantaire’s stomach turns to lead. “What?”

“Last night. You took advantage of me.”

Enjolras’ mouth is pressed in a thin line and Grantaire is suddenly so furious it wipes the remaining fog from his mind. He’d come here to maybe greet his boyfriend, kiss him hello and make sure that he slept reasonably well after an exhausting two days hiding from the infected. He did not come here for this shit. “What the _fuck_.”

“I was drunk,” says Enjolras, temper rising alongside Grantaire’s. “You knew I was.”

“I was drunk too. Maybe you took advantage of me,” snaps Grantaire because oh, Enjolras does not even know the meaning of taking advantage when it comes to Grantaire because their  _entire_ relationship is based on Enjolras taking advantage of Grantaire. Does Grantaire want to be helping to run a shitty outpost camp where the sole purpose is to keep the infected at bay and scavenge materials for the main settlement of survivors five miles away, living smack-bang in the middle of the infected hordes?  _Fuck does he_.

Grantaire is trembling with rage. “You asked – no, you _told_ me to,” he says, his voice cracking.

“You should have said no,” says Enjolras. “You knew I wouldn’t have wanted it like that if I were sober. You said so yourself last night.”

“I should have–” Grantaire chokes on a hysterical laugh. “You’re telling me that even when I am drunk, I should ignore what you tell me to do, thus incurring your wrath, and instead infer what you  _actually_ want me to do, despite not having actually told me.” His voice gets louder and louder until he cuts himself off, breaths heaving.

“Yes,” says Enjolras into the sudden silence between them and the look on his face almost makes Grantaire want to laugh. That is the look of realisation, as if it has taken Enjolras this long to figure out that this is what their entire relationship is based on – Grantaire looking beyond what Enjolras says to seeing what it is he really needs without a second thought, and Enjolras not know that he’s not doing the same for Grantaire. It’s become so expected of him that Enjolras takes it for granted now.

Grantaire leaves. Enjolras doesn't call him back. Grantaire is glad, because he would have obeyed.

 

**They avoid each other.**

Grantaire is hiding from Enjolras. He bets this is going to turn out like a romantic comedy movie. He remembers movie cinemas. There’s an old one just outside their perimeter. They’re good places for trapping the infected – get them all into one screen and they can take them all out at the same time from the screening room or with some well placed fire.

Anyway. Grantaire bets this is going to turn out like a romantic comedy movie. That means that the moment he starts hiding from Enjolras, Enjolras is going to magically turn up everywhere. He starts taking his meals with the first rotation instead of the second, even if it means getting up half an hour earlier for breakfast and then having a free hour before he’s meant to work the message desk. The second day he tries this, Enjolras appears. He knew it.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras blurts out, and then clamps his mouth shut. There’s a little pinch between his eyebrows which means he’s regretting something. It’s a look Grantaire is very familiar with. Evidently, it’s early enough in the morning that even Enjolras says things he’s not thought through.

“Eating,” says Grantaire. “Don’t you... normally eat on second rotation?” That is, after all, the entire point of Grantaire avoiding it.

Enjolras purses his lips. “Don’t _you_?”

It hits Grantaire. This is not a romantic comedy where Enjolras has been looking for him to explain; the very opposite in fact. It stings to realise that Enjolras is avoiding him, even though he’s avoiding him too – it just turns out that both of them, in the attempt to avoid the other, have actually ended up... together. Grantaire takes his food and flees.

 

**They talk it out. Eventually.**

But not until after another two searches in the next week, which leaves Enjolras more dehydrated and exhausted than ever, whiplashing to drunk almost immediately after he gets back. They’ve still not turned up any purification pills but there’s only a day left until the helicopter run and Joly has been carefully checking everyone’s hydration levels.

Grantaire slinks towards the room he shares with Feuilly, his back and feet aching. “Shhh,” says Feuilly, on his way out for his shift as Grantaire’s ends, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Feuilly jabs over his shoulder to where Enjolras is sprawled over their mattress.

“What’s he doing here?” asks Grantaire in a low voice.

Feuilly claps him on the shoulder, his hand heavy with some emotion that he’s not telling Grantaire. “Waiting for you.” He opens his mouth. Shuts it. He leaves. Grantaire stares at Enjolras for a long time, eyes flitting to where his shirt has ridden up, displaying the ridge of his hipbone.

Enjolras stirs, as if he senses Grantaire watching him, and shifts so that his eyes peer out from beneath his thick eyelashes to make eye contact with Grantaire. “‘lo,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Hey,” says Grantaire, too exhausted to protest.

“Come here,” says Enjolras softly, and really, that’s what got them into this whole mess, isn’t it? But he can’t deny Enjolras anything and so he sinks down onto the mattress carefully. Enjolras grasps Grantaire’s chin softly and pulls him forward, forward, but stops just shy of touching. Instead of a kiss, he breathes so Grantaire can smell his breath. “I’m not drunk,” he says clearly. 

“Neither am I,” says Grantaire. He hasn’t been drunk since the last time he’d shared a bed with Enjolras. His mouth is constantly dry and his body hates him for it and the dehydration coupled with the withdrawal symptoms are starting to affect his concentration on the perimeter.

“I need to show you something,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire notices, then, Enjolras’ laboured breathing, the way Enjolras winces as he peels his shirt off. His breath hitches when he sees. “No,” he whispers. “No, no, _no_.”

Enjolras looks down at his chest, where there is a large padded bandage on his side, taped just under his chest muscles on the side. “I have two days,” says Enjolras. “Three at most.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Why. Why did it have to be you.”

“It could have been any of us,” says Enjolras, more weary than anything else.

“Who else?” Grantaire swallows.

“Just me,” says Enjolras, a careful look on his face that means he’s not  _quite_ lying, but he’s certainly considering it. Grantaire just waits in silence. “It was going to get Bossuet. I couldn’t let that happen,” says Enjolras eventually.

Grantaire shuts his eyes because he wants to yell at Enjolras, shake him by the shoulders for being a stupid, reckless hero, putting himself in harm’s way in order to save someone else but – he can’t, because Bossuet is one of his best friends and he can’t imagine getting back to Bossuet showing him a ragged bite mark either.

“Shouldn’t you be in the meeting room?” Grantaire asks as Enjolras carefully pulls his shirt back on. “Laying out plans for what will happen to the camp after... afterwards?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “We’ve had plans in place since we started the camp up.”

Of course he has. “Now what?”

“Now, Combeferre and Courfeyrac start taking over.”

“What about  _you_?” says Grantaire.

“Well, I always said I’d sleep when I was dead.”

Grantaire laughs brokenly and it turns into a sob.

“Touch me,” says Enjolras. He swallows. “Please. No one else will, anymore.”

No, of course not. No one wants to risk infection, even though they know it only transmits through body fluids. Grantaire presses a hand to Enjolras’ cheek and strokes it.

Enjolras turns his face into his palm, and presses a light kiss into the base of Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire smooths his thumb over the high arch of Enjolras’ cheekbone and bends down to kiss him. Enjolras turns away, and Grantaire kisses his jaw instead. “Grantaire, no.”

“I don’t care,” says Grantaire, half muffled into Enjolras’ neck. “So infect me, I don’t care. I will follow you into the dark.”

“You can’t mean that, Grantaire.”

“What else is there for me?” Grantaire looks down at Enjolras, who doesn’t meet his eyes. “Tell me, Enjolras. What other existence is there for me in this shitty infected world? Waiting out the days until we run out of food or purification pills again? Fending off attacks and watching everyone I love slowly get picked off? We’re old enough to remember life before, and this pales in comparison. It’s an existence, Enjolras, not a life.”

“So you would rather have your friends live through the pain of you dying and leave them alone with their grief?” Enjolras glares up at him, eyes bright in the dim room. “I would not do that to anyone I love. I would rather be the last to die so that no one else will have to suffer that sorrow.”

“So don’t do this to me,” pleads Grantaire, as if this is something that can be changed through words alone.

“Grantaire,” sighs Enjolras. “You know I would spare you this if I could. But you have friends who love you too.”

“They will not miss me a fraction of how much I would miss you,” he whispers fiercely and surges forward, kissing Enjolras with every ounce of strength he has. Enjolras whimpers, tries to throw him off but it is too late.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if that will do anything to stem the infection. “Grantaire – no, why would you do that?” His voice rises in distress. “Why?”

“Because I love you, you idiot.”

 

**They live happily for the rest of their days.**

Enjolras is not one to idly wait for the infection to overtake him, to slowly lose his mind and memory and succumb to his animal senses, and Grantaire has no wish to watch him degenerate that way.

They say their goodbyes. In a way, their friends have all already said goodbye to each other; that’s the peril of living like this. Each time any of them goes out on a search could be the last time they see each other; every night when the infected come creeping out of the sewers could be the night their defences fail. But still, there are tears in everyone’s eyes as they hug each other goodbye, first Enjolras and then Grantaire. There doesn’t seem to be much surprise when Grantaire announces in front of them, his hand clasping Enjolras’ as if he cannot bear to let go for even a moment, that he is going with Enjolras.

Sadness, certainly, but not much surprise. It is well-known that where Enjolras goes, Grantaire will follow.

They go to one of the detached houses just outside the camp. It stands mostly the same way as it did before the infection swept through this part of the city. Most of the house has been kept the way it used to be, with a plush couch and cream carpet. There’s a bed there, a real king sized bed with clean sheets. The surfaces are a little dusty, which means that the camp is surviving well because no one has needed the house for a while.

Grantaire ignores the dust and closes the door behind them. He and Enjolras are alone. He doesn’t really remember what alone feels like. The camp is cramped so that they don’t have to keep expanding the perimeters and when he sits on one side of the bed and Enjolras on the other, there seems a vast expanse of mattress between them.

Grantaire chuckles feebly, and scoots closer, meeting Enjolras halfway.

“I’d never understood the point of these houses,” says Enjolras, looking around. There’s a fireplace, long disused, and a vanity dresser that still holds the imprint of coffee mugs and spilled make-up. “I always thought – if I were going to die, it didn’t matter much whether I died somewhere nice or not.”

Grantaire starts as Enjolras takes his hand and presses soft kisses over the knuckles. It’s the first time, he thinks, that Enjolras has initiated the contact between them. Enjolras looks at him, eyelids half lowered. “If I could have, I would have liked a house like this for us,” he says, and Grantaire stares back at him because Enjolras is saying something if only Grantaire will listen hard enough to hear it. “Somewhere we could invite the others round and have space for everyone. Somewhere we could grow our own vegetables and have a dog, maybe, a neighbourhood with a good sense of community.”

Grantaire laughs helplessly. “You would have hated that,” he says, remembering Enjolras before – well. Before. “You hated the idea of people invading your space, and you barely had time to _eat_ your own vegetables let alone grow them and for god’s sake Enjolras, you’re deathly allergic to dogs.”

Enjolras laughs along with him, and rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Well,” he says like Grantaire has missed the point completely, “ _you_ would have liked it.”

They sleep together, their hands entwined. There are sleeping pills in the bedside table, because no one who comes here is likely to have peaceful sleep, but neither of them take any. The bed is now too big, too comfortable to sleep in now he’s used to a thin mattress on the floor but Grantaire is trying not to disrupt Enjolras’ sleep too much so he lies there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

Beside him, Grantaire hears a huff, and the weight of Enjolras rolling over until he’s on his front, peering over at Grantaire. Their eyes lock, and without a word, they lean forward until they kiss. Enjolras’ lips are dry over Grantaire’s and he weighs barely anything as he leans on him. Grantaire’s hand sneaks from the sheets up to curve along Enjolras’ waist, and Enjolras’ fingers are tightly pressing into Grantaire’s shoulders.

Grantaire hooks a hand behind Enjolras’ knee and pulls his leg up until Enjolras is straddling his body.

“Wait,” says Enjolras. “I don’t have any –” He breaks off and they both laugh at the same time, realising what little use they have for condoms now.

Enjolras is soft and pliant in Grantaire’s arms but it’s so very different to the last time. Enjolras shivers when Grantaire slides his fingers up the inside of his thigh, and bites sharp kisses down his neck. He pulls his shirt off – the bite mark has mostly healed by now, which is ironic given it’s killing him – and Grantaire rolls them over so that Enjolras is on his back and he can press kisses to each of Enjolras’ too-obvious ribs.

Enjolras pokes at Grantaire’s trousers with his toes and they get shucked off unceremoniously at the same time as his underwear, landing in an incongruous heap on the neat carpet of this neat suburban bedroom. Enjolras nuzzles at the dip near his hip with his nose and looks up at Grantaire for only a second before taking him into his mouth.

Grantaire groans. He goes from half hard to fully hard as Enjolras sucks on him noisily, pressing his tongue up to rub against the underside of Grantaire. Grantaire’s fingers flex for something to clutch, and flits down to fist thick handfuls of Enjolras’ long soft hair splayed across the pillow. Enjolras’ eyes are wide and defiant and Grantaire takes it for the challenge it is, and thrusts down into the wet heat of his mouth, his strangled groans hanging heavy in the musty air.

Grantaire feels Enjolras’ fingers tight around the softness of his arse, and muffles his cry into his forearm as Enjolras relentlessly takes him apart with his mouth. He spills, hot and desperate, into Enjolras’ mouth, his hips locked into place by Enjolras’ grip.

He slumps bonelessly onto the wooden headboard of the bed, gasping as Enjolras surfaces for air, occasionally teasing him with little licks, unable to do more than comply as Enjolras wrestles him back down onto the bed triumphantly to press his body against Grantaire’s and gloat at how easily Grantaire comes for him.

In return, Grantaire fingers him until Enjolras’ eyes are rolling back in his head and then pulls out and presses his head to Enjolras’ chest just to hear the frantic thumping of his heart.

They fuck, harsh and hard and breathless.

They nap, exhausted and curled up in each other’s arms.

They wake again when the moon is still high in the sky and Grantaire slips his leg between Enjolras’ and takes him like that, his back pressed to Grantaire’s chest and their hands clutched together, muffled sentiments breathed along each other's skin.

They make love, Enjolras’ back to the wall and his thighs hitched over Grantaire’s hips, sharing breath and wet, warm kisses that blur into each other, Grantaire’s name on Enjolras’ lips like he still can’t quite believe that Grantaire is here with him.

In the morning, they go down into the basement. It’s made of solid concrete and the only furniture in the room is a small metal trunk. Easy for the others to clean, afterwards, in preparation for the next people who have to come here.

“On three?” says Grantaire, taking out the trunk’s contents and passing one to Enjolras.

Enjolras steals a final kiss, lingering and soft. “I love you,” he says. “I never said it. I love you.”

“I know,” says Grantaire. “You idiot.”

“On three,” says Enjolras, and cocks the safety off his gun.

“One, two –”

 

**Everyone laughs when Courfeyrac tells the story at their weddi–**

Well. The rest of the details were right.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. :x Come lynch me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com).
> 
> There is actually historical and scientific evidence about drinking beer instead of water. ([1](http://io9.com/could-you-drink-beer-instead-of-water-and-still-survive-457081579), [2](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Small_beer), [3](http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/feb/10/scientists-suggest-beer-after-workout/))


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